“Don’t feel like you have to finish it now,” he teases. “Take it home with you. Enjoy it.”
My cheeks warm. “Thanks, Noah.”
Despite the shrieks and laughter from the group playing in the stream below, we relax into an easy, comfortable silence. Noah stares with half-lidded bliss into the canopy above, one hand plucking strawberries from the container while the other plays gently with my damp hair. I’ve nestled back into my spot resting on his leg, Noah’s sketchbook propped in my lap. The pages are empty and pristine, and the sticker from the store is still on the back. I’m flattered by his thoughtfulness.
Maybe an eternity later—I can’t tell how much time has passed in our bubble, but my hair has completely dried by now into its usual waves—I’m sketching a scene of water nymphs tempting a traveler into their pond when Noah speaks up again.
“I want that on my ceiling.” His thumb taps the side of the sketchbook. “What’s your next project after the mural’s finished? Should only be a week or two left, right?” The expression on his face is soft and daydreamy. “Morgan should hire you to paint bluebonnets at her store. Or maybe I’ll hire you to paint my van.” He twirls one of my curls around his pointer finger. “What do you want to try next?”
I’m surprised by how quickly unease cramps my stomach, how my heart sinks further with each new suggestion. “I think the mural is a onetime thing for now.”
“Oh? I thought you were really enjoying it.”
“I am. Of course I am.” I think back to how I crooned off-tune into my paintbrush as we blasted music from the speakers yesterday morning. I swallow. “I just—I don’t know how much time I’ll have for another project. It depends on how everything with Paragon goes.”
“Oh,” he says again. “How was the first interview?”
“It went really well.”
“Are you excited?”
I poke my tongue into the side of my cheek. “It’s a good opportunity.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
I don’t answer. He acknowledges it by mussing my hair again, but he doesn’t press.
“Well, I think Dan would hire you again, if he could,” he says.
“For what?” I laugh. “There aren’t any walls left.”
“He’s considering opening up another location.”
“Here?”
My eyes are on my sketchbook, but I recognize the smile in hisvoice. “In Colorado,” Noah says. “Our old college buddies in Boulder are getting jealous. They think he could do the same thing back there. At least, they want to be a part of it if he decides to go that route.”
I hum thoughtfully as I take a sip of mead again. “Is Dan thinking about moving?”
“He’s not sure. Maura would love it if he did. Either that, or he asked if I would be interested in leading the charge.”
The mead is suddenly too sweet, and the flavor clings to the back of my throat. I put too much pressure on my pencil, and the next line I draw is bold and dark. “Are you?” I hope my tone sounds calmer than I feel.
Noah tilts his head from side to side. “I don’t know. So far as a rule I haven’t lived in the same place twice, and I spent years in Colorado—but I’ve got a lot of friends out there. We’ll see. He’s given me a few weeks to think it over.”
He says it so simply, like it’s the smallest thing in the world.Just a few weeks?Does he make all of his decisions that quickly?I wonder if he can tell that my brain is bluescreening, so I distract myself with sliding the pencil into the spiral binding of the sketchbook and folding my hands on my lap. I glance toward the sun through the leaves; already it’s far past its peak, arcing back down toward the earth.
“I felt like all of the days dragged, when I first got here,” I say quietly. “I hardly knew what to do with myself. But now—” I’m impressed by how level I keep my voice despite the tightness in my throat. “Time is passing really fast, isn’t it?”
Already his hands are moving. He’s lifting me up, wrapping me in his arms from behind. It’s like I’m filled with bees—the anxious, awful energy buzzes underneath my skin. But he’s still. Quiet. I love how enveloped I feel in his arms, pressed against his broad chest.
“It is,” he murmurs, his chin nuzzling against my hair. “But it’s nothing to worry about now, Sadie. We take it one day at a time.”
Part of me takes comfort in his calm approach—and part of me resents how he seems to take everything in stride. I question whether seeing him get all worked up over what I see as a massive decision would help justify how torn I am. How seriously is he considering driving off to his next adventure? And would the answer make me feel better or worse? Maybe I want him to ask me to stay—and maybe I want to ask him to stay, too.
But instead he just holds me and whispers into my hair, “It’ll all work out.”
It makes me want to jump out of my skin.
